Aberration of Starlight

~ ~ ~

How hard it was to believe and how thrilling it was to know that Tom was famous! And she, as Mrs. Tom, as the newspapers called her, the queen bee of so many functions. And her furs. And her favorite recipes jotted down by goodness knows how many reporters! The after-theater cafés and bistros favored by the glittering couple for late suppers with champagne, of course, and tasty things that waiters set on fire. Of course, both boys were in the best prep schools but came home for summer vacations and the holidays, of course. And then Eton or Oxford or Princeton. How she looked forward to seeing them in their beanies.

How grand to have a second honeymoon just a year and a half after their first. The first had been really and truly heaven — especially since it was also a sort of celebration over her annulment — the church, the wonderful, wonderful Catholic church had decided that Tony had been so rotten and mean through and through that she was entitled to an annulment because her marriage was a marriage in name only and actually was a very special case of cruelty. And when she saw Tom’s “little”—ha ha — surprise! That morning when he took her down to the dock to see the yacht she thought she’d die. What was most wonderful about it all? The name, “Tomarie”? The smiling Negro steward, George, always shuffling around with his silver tray of canapes and Orange Blossoms and Mint Juleps? Or was it the gruff, weatherbeaten, and red-bearded captain, Ole Olson? All white and gold and with a yellow-and-white striped awning over the aft poop. And Tom all in white! His strong white teeth twinkled in a boyish grin that lit up his mahogany face. And how the sun had bleached out his dark wavy hair and his little moustache, oh, that she loved so much because it tickled her when she swooned in his arms and made her feel so wicked!

Could the weather be any better? All the way down to the Bermudas the ocean was smooth as glass or as Tom said, like the fishpond back home when he was a boy. She had to laugh when she thought of the white ducks swimming around in it. The golden shores of Miami. And the gay casinos of old Habana! That’s how you pronounced it, Tom said, he knew everything. But he shouldn’t, should not have given her that double strand of pearls for her beautiful ivory neck, he called it, that must have cost him a king’s ransom. He kissed her nose and threw back his head and laughed when she looked worried, his muscles twitching in his square jaw. Money to burn! he laughed. But exactly what was his invention? She had asked him a dozen times but he had gently caught her chin in his firm fingers and shaken it back and forth and told her to worry about her frocks — what a lovely word!

The boys hit it right off as she had prayed they would, like two peas in a pod, diving all day long for sea conchs or sponges and coral off the side of the “Tomarie,” while George served tumblers of iced coffee and tiny watercress and cucumber sandwiches. Tom beamed, really happy for the first time in so long, the worry lines disappearing from his brow. I am Mr. Lucky! he said, lighting up his wonderful smelly old pipe that she really adored, only she wouldn’t dare let on, his “skeeter chaser.” How often he said that lately, for no reason than that he was so grandly happy, and his dark-brown eyes would melt into hers as he gazed at her face from far far away. And how he would laugh, puffing through his briar as he watched her learn to smoke her Virginia Rounds. She loved the feel of the long ivory holder between her fingers. And always in the background Skipper Olson seemed to be gruffly swearing in Norwegian at the flying fish that plopped on the deck by the dozens, their rainbow colors flashing in the moonlight. Tom would roll his eyes up when she asked him what the old salt was saying and never tell her. He could be so adorably mean.

That hush in the casino when she floated in on Tom’s arm and all eyes turned to look at them! It was like being with Clark Gable or George Brent. But Tom was better-looking, yes he was. And how the lights of the Riviera winked behind them as they returned to the yacht in their dinghy, sipping champagne as the moon went in and out of the clouds like in poetry. Tom had such class when he tipped the sailor who helped them aboard God knows how many francs. Merci! the young tar said, all smiles, his little red pom-pom bobbing around as cute as a button.

The best time of all — oh, how could she decide? But the way they spooned like high-school sweethearts in the pink twilight! Watching the lights go on in the cute little white houses on the beach. And once in their private cabin that had real oil paintings of famous sailboats on the walls, how they would snuggle and cuddle while the ocean rocked them to sleep and they heard the soft clump-clump of Captain Olson’s wooden leg above them on the deck and his warm safe voice swearing at the sailors to fix up the sails and yardarms and anchors. And then they would, more often than not, come out on deck when it was very late and watch the stars without saying a word. Tom’s arm encircled her waist in his powerful grip. He had such a strong, trim figure — as slender as a boy’s. He would never have to worry about getting a corporation or even about getting fat and flabby … behind.

And at those times, her small white hand — pale hands I love, Tom always said — nestled close in Tom’s big brown one, she breathed a silent prayer of thanks that she had whispered “yes” to him before she knew one iota of his plans to patent and sell his invention. She had blushed and lowered her eyes in sweet surrender to what she thought was this dashing but gentle guy who was perfectly happy just being a crack salesman. And then after he had throatily whispered that now, now he knew that she loved him for himself, that he had seen into the bottom of her heart, he had kissed her so hard that she almost fainted in the overpowering manliness of the scent of bay rum and rose oil and tobacco that floated around him. And then as they had walked in the moonlight and the crickets and the fireflies down the road back to the Stellkamps’, he had told her, quietly and proudly, with no swellheaded braggadocio about it: I am a rich man, sweetheart. Very —very rich. And I will be even richer. The sky’s the limit! And it is all, all for you, my beautiful… bride. And how long they had then stood on the road looking into each other’s hearts she couldn’t imagine. They didn’t even feel the mosquitoes! How they bragged about that afterward to their set.

Even her poppa was finally pleased. Pleased? Happy and thrilled with the little cottage that Tom had bought for him in the woods that he had always loved to look at from afar. And his every need taken care of, a valet and butler and a chauffeur to take him into Hackettstown when he needed a haircut or some groceries or anything or even home to Brooklyn when he felt like chewing the fat with his old cronies and maybe even drive them back for a night playing Casino. And Poppa was speechless when he saw the croquet lawn that Tom had installed with grass so green and smooth that it looked like green velvet. And though he hemmed and hawed, he was so pleased with his hand-made mallets and balls that he used to carry a mallet around with him wherever he went almost. Could she ever forget that spring morning when the old man had given her away, so dignified in his cutaway coat and striped pants, and his eyes full of tears behind his pince-nez?

And Tom! Dear, dearest Tom, who had insisted that she wear white: You are my bride! He had almost raised his voice, and so she had worn Tom’s mother’s gown, and carried lily of the valley and white roses. He was so adorable and precious when he fumbled, all hot and red, with the ring, a simple gold band that looked so beautiful next to the huge engagement ring he had given her, a band that she had promised herself that she would never, never take off, no matter what, they could kill her! Inside, and so small that you almost needed a magnifying glass to read it, Tom had the date engraved in Roman numerals and — just like the yacht—“Tomarie,” because, he explained, it means we are joined forever, we are one flesh. How she had blushed at the word! She would always remember how his breath caught as he whispered it, as she picked rice out of his silky and shining waves. But the most darling thing were the beautiful words also inside the ring, “One Alone To Be My Own.” And even now she thrilled as she thought of those words pressed up against her flesh.

It was their secret and in the months of joy that followed it was to be a secret that they shared everywhere. In crowded parties, amidst the hullabaloo of restaurant dinners after board meetings, on weekends in Long Island where they went to hunt grouses and pheasant, even crowded together with the hoi polloi and riffraff when they went, for a lark, into the streets full of the common people to search for dear little bargains that it was such fun to buy. They would look into each other’s eyes and Tom’s would get all crinkled and silently they knew that they were thinking, together, “One Alone To Be My Own.” They started to call it the secret of the ring, and then just the secret, and drove everyone who knew them just crazy. And it was true, “one alone,” and would be forever and ever!

Sometimes, crocheting or knitting or reading one of the serious thick good books from the library that Tom had insisted the yacht’s designer put in, she would look up and take her reading glasses off— Tom said she looked like a schoolteacher with “It” with them on, he was terrible! — and see Tom clutching at the rigging booms or something, his finely chiseled profile against the sunset that was purple and red and gold like in the oil paintings in the cabin, his eyes peeled for sharks and tunas and dolphins, and blazing with amusement at the flying fish that thumped at his feet. Or he stared at the golden shores beyond with the lights going on and the orange trees on them. Or she would watch him quietly as he puzzled out some technical business problem he had taken along with him, his mouth twisted around like a boy’s doing his homework, chewing on his pencil — and her heart would stop! Really stop for a minute and then surge up again, leaping with joy! And he would look quickly over at her and smile his deep deep smile so that she had to jump up and run to him and hug him, almost crying with happiness!